


The Bleeding Edge

by Chocobutts, quinary



Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: Accidental Flirting, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Not Really Character Death, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-11-16 05:30:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18088340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chocobutts/pseuds/Chocobutts, https://archiveofourown.org/users/quinary/pseuds/quinary
Summary: It’s always the quiet ones.





	1. Year One

**Author's Note:**

> Formatted from a roleplay with my insanely talented girlfriend, who writes an excellent Mirage, no matter what she says.
> 
>  
> 
> Just a few things first, universe-wise.
> 
> 1\. The games are an annual event, so there's some time in between them.
> 
> 2\. They're also fought from VR, since we wanted to add a little (or a lot) of violence without those pesky consequences. This is based off of Titanfall, wherein you can train in that little VR simulator and do the gauntlet and yada yada. The ship carries beacons that relay the legends' signals to and from the island This also allows for respawns.
> 
>  
> 
> If you have any questions, feel free to ask us down in the comments. Hope you enjoy!

Inside the ship was dingy and bitter, swamped by restless squirming shadows and the undeniable scent of nervous sweat dripping down the necks of the hopefuls suspended inside. Visibly anxious, in spite of the ersatz confidence they seemed so determined to present to their competition. Visible at least to Bloodhound. They scanned the faces of those nearest to them as the dim fluorescent lights above flickered as the ship shuddered over mild turbulence, pulling the darkness over them and transforming their stoic expressions into the haggard grimaces of those on their way to meet either death or victory. A few legends stumbled, their hands catching in a white-knuckled grip on the hanging straps above them as the floor rocked beneath their feet. Hound glanced away, not wishing for their own staring to add to these newcomers’ embarrassment, they seemed fearful enough as they were.

The very air seemed to fill with tense anticipation as they neared the isle of King’s Canyon, the fog of it so thick that one might cut it with a blade. A dull roar of murmuring began to settle over the legends as they discussed where to land, their anxiety now collectively focused on what awaited them within the ring. Bloodhound’s own squad stood clustered in one of the far corners of the ship, speaking in hushed tones. Two women,  glancing over to them every now and again. One had electric blue hair, Fathom, they believed her name was. The other, Delta, seemed to radiate nervous energy, her hands tapping out a tuneless beat on her thighs. However, they were clearly enthusiastic to be on the same team as the past year’s champion, but, if their hesitant looks were anything to go by, also distraught by Hound's innominate appearance. People usually were, it was of no concern to them. Their team would gather themselves when the time to drop came, or at least Hound hoped so.

One man, or boy— Bloodhound couldn’t quite decide— began to speak loudly, full of arrogant bravado as he boasted his skill, despite Hound never having seen him in the ring before. “Alright, who wants to step up? Anyone? I’ll be down there.”  Gloved fingers were hooked into his low slung utility belt, an arrogant smile spread across his handsome face as his talk captured the attention of nearby squads. He strutted across the floor at the behest of one of his teammates' crooked finger.

“Mirage, get over here now," a large man growled.

The man— Mirage, as he had been called— laughed loudly, garnering glares and disgruntled muttering from the legends that he passed, giving only salacious looks and flirty winks in return. “Oh man, it takes more than one finger to get to me come. Duh!” His lazy comment was met with a murderous look. A small smile tugged at Hound’s lips as the man swaggered around his squad, apparently immune to their ire. How is it to be so carefree? Or careless, as it may be. Bloodhound watched as he ran his tongue over his teeth with a grin, gesturing to his own face. “Ya see this handsome mug? No wrinkles because I ain’t stressing. Also because I born to be this naturally gorgeous and lumin-lumany— ugh. Hot. I’m hot.”

Suddenly, the monotonous voice of the announcer rang throughout the cabin of the ship, drawing Bloodhound’s attention away from this “Mirage,” as well as all the other legends’.

_“Legends, this is your champion.”_

Hound’s face flushed hot under their mask as their own eyes stared down at them from the huge screen that encompassed the end of the ship, their name emblazoned underneath their domineering image, Muninn perched on one hand and a knife gripped in the other. Their voice rang out from the walls, proclaiming emphatically, _“It is your honor to face me.”_

They looked away from the screen and over to their teammates who were staring at them with rapt attention, as was everyone else, expecting some show of pride, most likely. Bloodhound paid them no mind, instead choosing to straighten their back and join their squad, who greeted them eagerly with questions about last year’s games.

The voice they knew to be Mirage’s spoke up again, loudly announcing with a short laugh, “I’m even better face to face, not that they’d know anything about that being a coward in a mask. Come find me, champ.” Careless, then. Hound rolled their shoulders, bristling. Such tactless talk would surely get him killed, by their own hand even, perhaps, if that is as the Allfather willed it.

Squads began to huddle closer to the bay doors as they began their slow descent towards the island. Hound’s fingers alighted on the belt that secured the jumpkit to their waist, tightening it as firmly as they could. Their teammates were jittery next to them, excitement and nerves pouring off them in waves as the light began to spill through the edges of the doors.

The jump itself was fairly smooth, Hound was in no rush to be first, certainly not to jump with everyone else. The feeling of the wind whistling through their jacket alleviated any doubts that they may have had, and they began to settle into the familiar routine of rooting through the crates littered throughout the buildings for any weapons and ammunition. They had chosen a drop zone not too far from many of the other squads, still within the ring but away from the din of the firefight beyond the rocks.Mirage was nowhere in sight. Bloodhound wondered how long he would last, given the target he had put on himself.

Gunfire roared in the distance, rolling down from over the hills that cradled the aptly named Skull Town. It wasn't unusual for the bloodshed to begin there, everyone scrambling for the best guns and shields. Bloodhound’s squadmates were doing much the same, despite the lack of combat. They splashed through the muddy water under the bridges, chirping out the names of weapons and quality of ammo laying about. Their enthusiasm was encouraging, at least.

Bloodhound gripped the rifle in their hands more firmly. With no scope equipped, it would be relatively useless to them. They lifted the barrel and stared down the iron sights towards the marketplace, inhaling deeply the filtered scent of the river as they collected themself. The way they had positioned their squad seemed to be favorable, no other legends were heading towards them, not yet.

They signaled their team over, pointing towards the entrance to the market that sat undisturbed some meters away. “This way,” they said softly. “We will be quick to join the fight, lest the óvinur find us first.”

The loud clang of the door pushing open raised Bloodhound's hackles. Inside, it was dim, illuminated only by the pale morning light streaming through the cracks in the ceiling and the faded neon signs that crawled along the dirty walls. Shouts echoed through the building, along with the sound of shots being fired. The door on the opposite end had been opened already, it seemed. With the blessings of the Allfather, hopefully not too many squads had come inside.

The rifle they held still had no scope. Close quarters, such at the marketplace was, it would be a hindrance. They hooked it to the strap that lay across their back, choosing to stow it in favor or drawing the smaller automatic pistol they had scavenged at the bridges. Their squad whispered together, still caught in the allure of being on the same team as a champion, it would seem. They sighed quietly, the team's focus should not be this divided, it would only—

Bloodhound crouched suddenly, hushing their teammates, holding up their empty hand to signal them to halt as well. Footprints disturbed the layer of dust that coated the floor of the catwalk. Recent, and running, judging by the distance between them. Someone had been here, moments before they had pushed open the door.

With a loud crack, a bullet rushed past their head, embedding into the wall. A shooter was below, taking shelter in the shadows of the market stalls. Bloodhound dropped, taking cover behind a stone pillar, their squad following suit. They waited a moment before peeking around one side and— there. A muzzle flash from the left as another shot rang out. They ducked back quickly, and gave their squadmates a nod towards the stairs before rolling and sliding down the railing.

They activated the device wrapped around their wrist. And, by the Allfather, their vision cleared, the shadows of the market receding as the lenses of their mask shifted into higher focus. Nearby and fast approaching was their shooter, equipped with a gun much larger than Hound's own meager pistol. The rest of the enemy team didn't seem to close. Perhaps, with luck, they had already been eliminated.

Hound rolled their shoulders, finger hovering over the trigger as they surged from behind the crate, landing a shot in the thigh of the man nearing them. He discharged another bullet, but it missed, hitting only concrete as Hound skidded across the floor. They fired again, and this time the bullet found its mark in the right eye of the _andskoti_ . He remained standing for a moment, wobbling before he collapsed backwards with a wet thud as his fractured skull met the ground.   
  
They let out a long breath. The familiarity of this dance had long since sunk into their bones. It was almost pleasant, the adrenaline.

Bloodhound's team was quick to smother them with praise. They shifted their stance, perturbed. One death would not bring them to victory. It did, however, bring Hound a scope. They shrugged away from their squad’s wanton plaudit and kneeled beside his body. They detached the scope from the dead man's gun, fitting it to their own rifle before closing his eyes. Blood and brain matter seeped from his damp hair, forming a halo of gore around his head. They found themself staring for a moment, caught in a mixture of fascination and sympathy. Standing abruptly, they collected themself and gave the man a small salute of thanks as they joined their teammates, who had taken to looting the rest of the building.

The remainder of the marketplace held no further luck, only syringes and ammunition they didn't require. The man’s team didn’t appear around any corners, ready for revenge. It was time to move on, out the door and into the fray of the battle that encompassed Skull Town.

Their squad was eager to engage, thirsting for more action after the brief encounter inside the market, despite their own hesitance to act. Hound stilled them, keeping them crouched behind the rocks on the brink as the fighting began to quiet down.

A few figures were trading shots in the distance. Bloodhound raised their rifle, peering through the scope. _What a surprise,_ they thought. Mirage had survived the initial landing. He was impressive in combat, that much was obvious, but two banners dangling from his belt let them know that his squad had not been so fortunate. His comment on the ship flooded back to them as they watched him twirl the gun held in his hand. _Coward._ There was no movement besides the panicked scrabbling of the person Mirage had knocked into the dust and Mirage’s own arrogant swaggering. Bloodhound lowered their rifle. They had found him.

 

* * *

 

 _Maybe boasting was_ not _the best course of action_ , Mirage thought as he listened to the telling shouts and screams of his squadmates as they got knocked down and then brutally eliminated. The trio had dropped in Skull Town, despite the misgivings from everyone apart from Elliott. It was always overrun with overachieving assholes. Ducking gunfire and sliding to safety behind a rock for a moment, Witt figured he also fell into the idiot category.

Multiple squads had landed with them. Mirage had sprinted to acquire any sort of armor or, more importantly, a weapon before the bloodbath began. His teammates weren’t so lucky. He’d tried his best to lend them a hand, he really had. He’d sent out multiple decoys to try to get the enemies off their scent, but it was too late. Third party pushes sucked. Mirage himself was already injured with weak armor, and a fucking Mozambique clutched in his sweaty grasp.

Right behind him gunfire boomed, the fight climbing to a deafening volume as bullet after bullet rang out and multiple grenades were thrown out to crack armor or gain a lucky kill. It sounded like two squads were dueling it out. Mirage knew the counters on his allies beacons were ticking down. He’d have to grab them if he even wanted a chance at surviving this.

Checking his ammo supply, Elliott cursed. There were six shots left and no reserve bullets in his bag. With such shitty range, he knew he needed less distance between his nearly useless gun and the enemies to even do enough damage to get a kill. Sparing a peek around his barrier, Mirage counted five people fighting directly over his teammate's bodies. Okay… he could do this. Just roll up on them and empty his clip into their faces. Easy.

“Let’s get to bamboozling.”

His first decoy ran in the middle of the battle, the squads already caught up in trying to gun each other down and surprised by the new addition as the hologram held their weapon and waved. Mirage winced as multiple shots rang out and tore through the fake him, a pout on his mouth as he stood behind a robot and fired a shot into the back of his head, killing him instantly. “Ouch! You guys need to learn how to play nice.”

Immediately, guns turned on the newcomer, but Elliott only winked before disappearing. In his place, multiple decoys stood, smiling at the enemy squad. The four people were left confused as they shot wildly at the holograms and one another while Mirage slid to safety behind a vehicle before uncloaking. More people went down, the trickster weaving in and out of the fray as he worked on trying to get the necessary shots required at such a minuscule distance.

Three more kills and Mirage was grinning, blood splattered across his cheeks and a fierce light in his eyes as he pistol whipped someone into submission and the shot for a squad eliminated rang out. To his left remained the final man, huddled behind a knockdown shield and babbling something about a truce. Not happening, buddy.

“You better not be getting comfortable up there. I’ll respawn you both soon.” Bending to retrieve his teammate’s beacons, Mirage turned to the final person and tsked softly. He had time now, knowing there was a conveniently close place to respawn and there were plenty of bodies to loot and get everyone suited up. This was winnable if he could take down two whole squads single-handedly Mirage could do anything. He wondered if his mother would be proud of this, the trickster smoothly sliding his empty gun into a holster as he sauntered closer to the last man.

“Hey, don’t take this personal. It’s just business… personal business.”

The anticipation of the last blow was building, almost as if a whole crowd stood expectant of witnessing Elliott deliver the strike. This would be it; his achievement of becoming kill leader and proving he was more than just some loudmouthed prick with no skill to back up his claims. The trickster goaded his invisible adoring fans on, lifting his arms as if asking they scream louder before shifting his weight to deliver the punch when he noticed the petrified stare leveled behind his shoulder. A flash of trepidation tingled through his body, a warning for Mirage to move but there was no time.

_Fuck._

He was unable to react quickly enough as an arm was slid across his front. Elliott felt himself be yanked backwards, pressed against a hard chest as words were murmured near the shell of his ear. “Your pride does not become you,” the voice said softly. And there was a moment of absolute clarity, the brush of a firm body behind his own with a strong arm anchoring him there, words lilting gently across his cheek. Bloodhound. The champion.

Their accented voice was pitched at a volume reserved for an affectionate embrace, but the illusion was shattered by the sudden agony sparking along his nerve endings. “I will give you this death so that you may learn from it.”

 _The last time he had found himself in such a position, the experience had been much more pleasant,_ Elliott thought wildly. _There was no stabbing involved._

The sickening squelch of the knife carving through the soft skin and muscle of the back of his neck was lost on him. Mirage fell back against Bloodhound as he reached with a shaking hand to feel the intrusion to his body, fingers skittering along the spine of the wet knife jutting from his lips. His other hand reached back to paw at the cruel mask concealing the person behind him, to what end, he didn’t know. The sharp tang of copper coated his tongue, the thick metal caught between his teeth doing nothing to muffle the horrible noises of his ruined body trying to breathe through the blood filling his throat.

His repulsive wet wheezing broke the stillness of the air, his severed esophagus unable to push out the thick red beginning to choke Elliott as his vision began to fill with dark spots.

He couldn’t breathe.

The worst part was the fact it didn’t end immediately, Mirage was acutely aware of everything as he slowly slumped in the arms holding him up. The way his throat muscles were contracting as if he were trying to swallow, and how his mouth moved but nothing escaped except that dreadful noise. Elliott wanted to die just so the sound would stop, his fingers dragging over the hard mask of his assailant as his last moments were held suspended for what felt like hours.

The darkness was welcome, embraced even as the Elliott fell into the numbness of his demise before he was brutally torn from the comforting void of nothing. It felt like waking up from a nightmare, Elliott screaming as he came to and found himself enclosed in the VR chamber.

Desperate hands clawed at his exposed throat, heaving breaths shaking his sturdy frame as the man slowly became aware of the fact he was alive and well.

Well… as okay as he could be.

Huddling in the enclosed space, Mirage felt tears running down his face as he tucked himself into a small ball. Humiliation at being pushed to such a state only made the shame burn brighter in his consciousness as shaking fingers lifted to his red and welted throat. His fingernails had done some damage to the skin, but it was nothing compared to the dull ache of pain thudding along untouched muscles. It was like there was still something there, piercing and tearing his insides even though nothing had even touched them. The pain didn’t always have to be physical.

Elliott Witt did not leave his chamber for a long time, scrubbing every last bit of evidence over his breakdown off his face before he stepped out to join the rest of the contestants who had met their end.

Across the large holo screens, the remaining squads fought, the former pilot desperately seeking out one person as he scanned the various angles until he saw them.

Bloodhound was stalking their latest prey, the dark spots across their chest plate all Elliott could watch as he stood there numbly. That was his blood painting the warrior, proudly displayed like spoils of war and making Elliott feel sick. Still, he did not look away until the end of the game where the very man who took his life stood victorious. Bile threatened to make an appearance, Elliott unable to stay in the same room as he fled quickly and sought out fresh air or even just some distance from the mocking screens. He needed several drinks.

 

* * *

 

 

Bloodhound slowly lowered to their knees as Mirage shuddered in their arms. His wide brown eyes stared up at them, filling with tears that curled down his ruddy cheeks, leaving streaks through the fine layer of grit that sullied his face. The blood pooling behind his teeth came bubbling forth as he choked. It spattered along his jaw, but Bloodhound was quick to wipe it away with their thumb.

“There is no shame in competition,” they said softly. “Keep faith, do not regret.”

They stood then, bending down to close his eyes and fold his hands over his chest, pulling the knife from his throat as they did. Their squadmates were close by, taking to looting the bodies strewn between the dusty buildings. The man Mirage had knocked down was near as well, his breathing labored and quick. Guilt settled in Hound’s chest— they had prolonged his suffering, too transfixed by the strange intimacy that death often brought to usher him to his fate.

They drew the pistol that sat waiting in the holster on their hip, executing him with one clean shot to the head. Hound watched him still, watched the blood trickle down from his temple and stain the sand red. The guilt lingered, but it yet was an honorable death. His trial was over.

Now it was time for Bloodhound’s to continue.

The sounds of a firefight in the near east captured their attention, back from where they had come, perhaps, at the bridges. It would soon be time for the ring to close. They unstrapped the rifle from their back and motioned to their team, waving them back towards the marketplace. “The games have scarcely begun, it is time we must go,” they declared.

As the ring drew ever closer, the number of squads dwindled. Hound’s own took to lingering on the edges, delivering swift deaths to any seeking to wait out the carnage. From eight, to five, to two teams remaining. Hound’s gloves were slick with blood, their breastplate dripping with it, both their own and others’. The rifle in their hands felt heavy as they approached the bunker. This would be it, the final fight. What was to decide victory.

They were down one member of their squad, lost to a battle that had strayed to far into the ring and unable to be retrieved. They were outnumbered, they were sure, but there would be no challenge in biding time until their enemy came for them, as those in the bunker were.

Lifting the bunker door brought out a hailstorm of grenades, the thunderous explosions rocking the ground under their feet, causing their teammate to collapse to her knees. They offered a hand, pulling her up before dragging her behind cover to their right. No further movement came from the door, they were waiting, hoping to draw Hound into a trap. They were no fool. Walking through that door would be a death sentence— they would have to devise a way to draw out the enemy squad.

Bloodhound carried two arc stars, their squadmate a thermite grenade. Perhaps they could use the enemy’s own tactic against them.

Hound pitched one arc star through the door, surprised to hear a scream and the sickening sizzle of flesh being eaten by the electricity. The enemy was closer than they had anticipated. True cowards would have hidden, they supposed.

They activated the device on their wrist once more, and the world came into stark focus, two of the figures tucked behind the thick walls of the bunker were crouched over their fallen comrade, desperately trying to revive them, it seemed. Energy rushed through them as they raised their rifle, racing forward and firing a shot into the side of one of their foes, relying on the cover of the enemy’s own distraction. A thermite grenade was quick to follow, cast by their teammate, cutting off any escape deeper into the bunker.

The return fire was sloppy, only grazing Bloodhound’s thigh as they barreled forth through the open door. Three men were on the floor, one was hardly moving, his skin charred grey and his clothes singed, the arc star glittering by his side. Another lay close by, a hand cradling the weeping  bullet wound that had punctured his ribcage, a shotgun gripped shakily in the other. The last man, he kneeled, another grenade held in his clenched fist. He was trembling, likely not having faced true combat inside the ring. The fire behind them cast them in gilded shadow, illuminating their fear.

“Your journey approaches its end,” Bloodhound growled. “Do not stay your fate.”

Four gunshots, and the games were finished.

•  •  •

The hydraulic hiss of the chamber opening pulled Hound back into the cold arms of Angel City. They squinted in the green light, ears ringing with the applause that met them. Bloodhound panted behind their mask, lenses fogging up with their heavy breaths, adrenaline still coursing through them.

Hands reached forward, coming to paw at them, congratulate them, praise them, but they shrugged away, eager already to return home. However, an after-party of sorts awaited them in the lounge around the corner and, as the year’s champion, they would be expected to make an appearance. The temptation to shirk all social obligation was strong, but their desire for a stiff drink was stronger.

Bloodhound sighed softly, ducking from the flash of cameras and heading towards the bar.

Bloodhound’s footsteps seemed to ring across the dark metal floor as they strode down the hall, the sound knocking around inside their skull. Their team was close behind, chattering excitedly. They were champions. Just the noise of it, their voices, their walking, it made Hound itch to draw their knife. But no, they weren’t an enemy squad. This wasn't the games. They had won, they were champions.

They felt stiff, uncomfortable, the electric current of survival-driven bloodlust still weaving, twisting underneath their skin. The strain and carnage of the games still lingered, the scent of blood and gunsmoke, burned flesh and mud, the screams.The heavy weight of the rifle they had held in their hands, the buck of the recoil as they extinguished any hope that their competition may have had.

Hound clenched their fists, almost surprised not to feel the hilt of their blade gripped between their fingers. It was almost over, almost done. They would get a drink, fulfill the obligation they had to make some sort of appearance as the newly crowned champion and then they could leave, get out of the city. They were close, they could hear the heavy pulse of fast-paced electronic music as it vibrated into the hallway. The sharp flicker of neon lights reaching out through the open door.

A crowd flocked to Bloodhound as soon as they stepped through. There were so many voices, all clamoring for their attention at once. They had to resist the urge to reach under their mask and press their hands over their ears.

 

* * *

 

 

Elliott found his way into the lounge before the rest of the contestants were allowed, he supposed there were some perks to being as big a flirt as he was. Smooth talking the older woman at the door had been easy, a few of his disarming smiles and a touch of her hand later and Mirage was drowning his sorrows before the first person even walked across the red carpet. The amount of alcohol consumed thus far happened to be enough to have Elliott in high spirits, his smile a little sloppy when he began flirting with a woman on his side. For the life of him, he could not recall her name, just aware she was a cute blond with dark eyes and a charming laugh. Though his vision was already a little blurry, so maybe he could confirm one of those statements was accurate.

There was a hand on his leg as she laughed at yet another adventure  Elliott told her, having an abundance of stories about his idiotic youth.Though, he supposed he would always have an endless supply if he continued 'acting a fool' like his mother always said. Competing with four older brothers was a challenge, there were always some expectations to satisfy or a dare to do to prove himself. When they all went missing, Elliott kept up the tradition of doing stupid shit but with none of the rewards. The hand gave a squeeze and Mirage blinked, coming back to his senses as the woman across asked a question.  Judging by the tone, she’d already said this more than once, and Elliott only shrugged in response before lifting his drink again.

The sharp sting of liquor across his tongue felt nice, a reminder that the intoxicated man was in this moment and should stop spacing out but it was increasingly difficult to focus with the haze clouding his mind. The fog was a welcome change though, making it harder to recall why he had been upset as he placed his glass on the bar. Intending to ask that they get out of there when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye, turning his head to see what was distracting enough to catch his attention.

These places were always crowded, the press of bodies impossible to move through without some contact. This was ridiculous though, the Trickster glaring as someone bumped his arm in a hurry to join the building crowd to his left. The woman shifted forward, her breath smelling strongly of the vodka sodas she’d been consuming as it brushed against his ear and Elliott flinched. No. Don't think about that.

“I think the champion is over there, want to check it out?”

It was a simple suggestion. It would only make sense for everyone in here to be fawning over the winner of the Apex Games but as soon as he heard the words Elliott pushed to his feet abruptly. Champion. Bloodhound.

Ignoring what felt like a tingle on the back of his neck, Watt strode forward intent on finding that person and let rage overtake his formerly hazy thoughts. Elliott's hands began to shake while he contemplated exactly what he would like to do to that piece of shit, forgetting about the woman calling his name from the bar as he pushed through the crowd. The closer Mirage got the more his anger built, the group of people thinning surprisingly until he saw Hound stood there. There was a moment of hesitation, Elliott recalling vividly how that mask felt under his fingers as he tried to claw at the knife in the back of his neck. How long it took to bleed out, and how fucking underhanded it was to attack someone from behind and in such a brutal way.

 _“You,”_ He growled, stomping up to the confused champion and curling his shaking fists into their shirt.

This close it was surprising to learn they were almost the same height, but that information was irrelevant as Elliott shoved the other person against the bar behind them; hard. This wasn’t some backhanded fight, Mirage was facing it straight on as he leaned into the mask and spat his words. “ _We_ have a fucking problem.”

Behind the pair the crowd was murmuring confused, some comments were thrown out about how this shouldn’t be happening to leave it in the ring but Elliott was deaf to anything other than the surprised breathing of the person in front of him. They shifted, and for a moment Elliott wondered his prey was going to escape up but all they did were reach up to wrap strong hands around his wrists. Their grip was surprisingly firm, almost making the furious man let go because of the force behind it but Watt continued on despite the pain. Using his body to make up for his weakening hold, the taller man shoved Hound further against the bar.

“What kind of honor do you really have? Spewing that bullshit about com— comp— _competition_ when you’ll sneak up and stab a man in the back. You’re not a champion. You’re just a fucking coward.”

His words were loud in the small space between their faces, well, face and mask. It was annoying being unable to look at the person and read whether this was affecting them. The chest pressed to his own was rising and falling rapidly, the faint panicked breathing audible as Elliott felt his hands beginning to cramp. This was not like him, while he was guilty of speaking first and thinking later the former pilot had never been violent unless the situation necessitated it. He liked relying on his quick wit over physically trying to win a fight, but it was so hard to remain level-headed when he took the interaction so personally. They fucking held him until the last moments of his death, and that small action was enough to enrage him to the point he lashed out.

“Elliott Witt. Mirage. Fucking remember my name because you’ll be seeing a lot more of me. I—”

A hand landed on his shoulder, a trivial action meant to try and pull his attention off the obviously annoyed Bloodhound but Elliott froze completely. His narrowed eyes widened in panic, almost feeling the blade again as it slid into his flesh to begin suffocating him. It felt so real and staring at that mask again placed him right back in the game.

Copper washed over his tongue, the cloying tang of blood choking him as Elliott sucked in a sharp breath and tried to touch his neck. The hands on his wrists were still holding on, the trickster losing all of that anger as he tried tearing the grip off himself and backing away. It was like a switch had been flipped, all that was replaced with a visceral fear of being hurt again. The panicked breathing wasn’t solely coming from Bloodhound anymore, Elliott fighting now as he knew he didn’t have a weapon or armor.

Trapped in the mindset Mirage needed to run or he would die, he pulled at the grip on his wrists uncaring of whether or not his action had consequences to his health. Finally tearing away was enough to snap him from his hazy panic, shame burning brightly under his alcohol-induced flush when Elliott recognized what just occurred.

For all that cowardice talk, Elliott just wanted to run away from under the accusatory gazes digging in from every angle. The blonde who had gripped him stood staring in clear confusion and hurt as she clutched her hand to her chest, but that didn’t matter so much as the need to fucking flee the scene. He couldn't look at Bloodhound, his mouth opening and closing as if Elliott could even speak in that moment as he turned tail and ran. People were knocked out of the way or simply shoved as the Trickster retreated, his metaphorical tail between his legs with every hasty step that bore him closer to outside.

His wrists were aching, an obvious sign there would be hand print shaped bruises pressed into his skin. Just another reminder of his failures both in the arena and out of it, dread ringing clear in his mind returning to his shitty hotel and being left alone with his thoughts.

_“What the fuck did I just do?”_

 


	2. Year Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, before we get started, there's a few Bloodhound headcanons to get out of the way.
> 
> 1\. [Here's their face.](http://quixikor.tumblr.com/post/183464998270/revamped-my-first-bloodhound-concept) Drawn by yours truly.  
> 2\. They've got four gold fangs, one on each canine.
> 
> If this isn't your cup of tea, we can understand, but this is just how they're gonna be for the remainder of the fic.  
> Hope you enjoy!

There was a light breeze tugging at the hood of their coat, carrying with it the acrid scent of the city air, rippling through the fur of Bloodhound’s collar and making it tickle against their bare chin. Hound’s footsteps were nearly silent as they walked, carefully picking their way around the dandelions that sprouted from the cracks that riddled the pavement. This close to the mountains, the handful of buildings that managed to stay standing were often overlooked, the majority of them decrepit and hidden away beneath shrouds of curling vines. The perfect place to hold an underground market— the Scrum, as most called it. It wasn’t that far off, tucked back into a crumbling old warehouse on the outer edge of the city. The business that happened inside was never documented. Dealers from all across the frontier gathered to peddle weapons, drugs, but most importantly: rare, coveted technology. Huginn soared above them, the sound of her wings beating against the wind brought a small smile to their lips. She called back to them, letting Hound know she saw no danger ahead.

Their tracker had been malfunctioning as of late, no amount of ordinary fiddling seemed to make it connect properly. The image it gave was shaky at best. The interocitor— the device that relayed heat signatures to their lenses— needed to be replaced. They’d been using an older hunting mask in the interim, but it wasn’t the same. It left them feeling too open, exposed with their lips so easily conveying emotion.

Huggin perched on the fence as Bloodhound approached the rusted gates that lead to the Scrum, cawing at them softly. Her feathers ruffled as they pushed it open, it’s loud creak belying its use. She cocked her head to one side as they walked past, concerned, they thought. Hound stroked two fingers gently along her neck soothingly. “Bíða.” They hummed. “I will not be long.”

Inside the Scrum it was dim, the pale sunlight that strained through the broken absinthian glass of the windows high overhead the only light source besides the colorful string lights that hung from the rows of stalls that lined every inch of the warehouse. It was old, the walls covered with decades of graffiti, filled with the smell of cigarette smoke and dust. The dull roar of hundreds of voices was almost peaceful, in a way. Anonymity even through the crowd.

And it was a crowd. Hound surveyed the expanse of the room from where they lingered by the door. The makeshift aisles were so densely packed with bodies, some were struggling to shoulder their way through the concourse.

Bloodhound sighed lightly. It may take them longer than they anticipated to find their interocitor.

* * *

 

“Does this come in... fewer tacky colors?” The glittering pendant that hung from Elliott’s fingers shone underneath the hazy sunlight spilling through the broken windows. The small gems embedded in the center were dazzling but so obviously fake as they caught the light. The merchant, formerly smiling, now tore the piece of jewelry from Elliott’s extended fingers with a barrage of foreign words that all sounded vaguely insulting. Elliott only smirked, backing off with his hands raised as if to show he meant no harm and let himself be taken back into the crowd.

In the trickster’s pocket sat the filched treasures, simple necklaces and rings stored away in their depths as a small act of rebellion in the face of the shady business owners. Despite the fact the Scrum was a notorious black market, Elliott liked to think there should be some honor among thieves. Selling this fake shit at such outrageous prices? The owner deserved a little loss, a cheerful tune being whistled as Elliott wove through the crowds of milling people with practiced ease.

It felt like being a kid again, Mirage _accidentally_ bumping into several people on his mission to reach his favorite stall... and relieving several people of their wallets as he went. It was like a high stakes game, adrenaline coursing in Elliott’s veins as he purposely sought out targets who looked as though they could murder him. By the time the trickster made it to his destination, his pockets were lined with more than a few coins. He flicked through the stack of cash before stuffing it back inside his pocket, dumping the poor suckers’ wallets in a garbage can.

Elliott lifted a hand in a wave as he pushed through the crowd, spotting his favorite vendor in the bunch. He shoved his way to the front of one of the many tables under the ownership of one Elaina Blake. Her counter was piled with tech, pieces and full machines left in a broken robot graveyard that spilled over the stall’s edges. Wires and loose electrical components were scattered along every available surface, every engineer’s worst nightmare and wet dream all rolled into one. Feeling his teeth sink into his chapped bottom lip, Elliott lifted an excited gaze to the older woman behind the table. Immediately he was met with a sparkly-nailed finger thrust in his confused face.  
  
“Don’t you say a word, Witt. I swear to god above, if you’ve come here with another line, I won’t sell you a thing..”

“My lips are sealed,” Elliott promised the woman, accompanying his statement with a wink despite the near glacial glare his charming grin gets as Elaina huffs and turns back to her work. With pleasantries done Mirage felt his fingers itching to comb through the scattered machinery, the former pilot picking through various old tech pieces with an enthusiasm usually reserved for less menial acts. Still, his dark eyes were bright as Elliott found a particular item that brought a smile to his lips.

The entire reason behind putting his training on hold for a day was to search for a gift, Mirage having put off finishing the birthday present meant for his mother until last minute. Still, working on yet another holo device on his own was taxing and more than a little confusing without the guidance of his engineer mother there to fix his mistakes. Elliott didn’t want her to know about it though, insistent on the fact his gift remained a mystery until the very end.

The interface for the entire device was missing one very crucial piece that was found in most old handheld systems, a small connector cable that was barely an inch in length but was responsible for sending the bulk of the data through the entire machine. Spotting that the old gaming system did have an intact one, Elliott lifted his head to haggle a price when Elaina murmured a grouchy greeting to a person who had stepped in to browse the wares.

Ready to dismiss the newcomer after a quick glance, Elliott let his gaze lift from his newfound prize only to freeze. Even from the side view the person was striking, a defined jawline visible as the stranger nodded to the greeting and bent their head to look over the messy table. A fur collar temporarily blocked out the enticing sight of smooth skin, Mirage licking his lips as he made a split second decision as to whether or not he would give it a try.

Moving forward and reaching out, Elliott strained to wrap his fingers around a small piece of tech as his throat was cleared. This placed the pair a lot closer than before, Mirage using it to his advantage as he shot a roguish smile upward and lifted the cracked lens as if explaining his actions. “‘Scuse my reach, stranger. I saw it and knew I needed to have it, hope this wasn’t something you were looking for. I may have to fight you for it.”

His words are just as playful as his warm expression, tawny eyes now free to slowly pursue the person in front of him properly as Elliott slips into the small space between the masked stranger and table at his back. Almost reclining back against the edge of the table pressed against his butt, Mirage takes his time in dragging his gaze along newly exposed skin. A small white scar bisected distractingly full lips, cut across both top and bottom and ending in a small tapered line along the chin. Another scar looked like it slashed across their cheek as well, the end disappearing beneath the half mask sadly obscuring the rest of what Mirage assumed to be a lovely face. “Though, can’t say I’d win against someone who looks like you. I’d be way too distracted.”

The words were reminiscent of his bartending days, all cheesy lines meant to earn Elliott tips or even a few numbers if he was lucky. Nothing about the man leaned back against the table was refined, his slightly crooked smile and unoriginal lines must have been overused and bland to the silent stranger stood there. So used to being able to test what flirty lines worked before getting involved in Apex, Elliott now had no point of reference for his so called ‘game’ since quitting his job.

Now all of his free time was dedicated to training, the extensive regime leaving no room for frivolous hookups, not that he’d had much time before. It felt like the only difference was the muscles that defined his chest. Elliott’s shirts fitting much tighter across his shoulders.

His eyes drifted down to their lips again. “I’m Elliott, and you’re gorgeous. Nice to meet you.”

The person in front of him didn’t speak, but their mouth fell open ever so slightly in clear surprise at his words. Was he being too forward? Mirage often found himself being rejected after the first pickup line, but the stranger’s parted lips didn’t seem like a complete rebuff.

He smiled again, perking up. “You know, I was joking about the whole lens thing. It’s yours if you want it,” he said with a soft laugh. “I get told my humor is kinda off sometimes.” Elliott leaned his hip against the counter, knocking a small cord off and onto the floor. Elliott cursed as he bent to pick it up with a sheepish grin at the silent stranger.

“Sorry, I swear I’m much more graceful. Fuckin’ ballerina even! Or not... I didn’t take dance or anything. Was more of a— I am rambling aren’t I?”

They glanced down to the floor, not meeting his gaze, their fingers curling together. _Shit_ , he’d made them nervous. Not wanting this interaction to end, Elliott desperately tried to think of anything else he could say to keep their attention on him.

“I like your scars,” he blurted. _God_ , _who says that?_ He panicked. _What if they were embarrassed by them? What if they_ —

A startled laugh escaped the stranger, interrupting his thoughts. They quickly pressed their fingers over their lips, as if caught off guard by their own reaction.

This was the first positive response he’d gotten in a while, he’d seen their small smile before they’d hidden it behind their hand, and he couldn’t help it. He wanted to see it again.

“I made you laugh! Come on, you don’t gotta hide it. I think it’s cute.” he reached, intending to playfully pull their arm away from their face, but as soon as he made contact, the stranger tore themself away. They slammed themself backward with enough force to rattle the stall, hands flat against the wall behind them. Their lip curled into a snarl, baring four gold fangs. Elliott felt his eyes widen in clear surprise, holding out both hands to show he was unarmed as he spoke quickly in an attempt to soothe them. “Woah woah, I’m sorry. Please, I’m not going to hurt you. I promise I won’t touch you again.”

Obviously his overly affectionate nature had gotten the best of him. Elliott murmuring out apologies as he kept his hands well within the person’s line of sight to make sure they saw that he wasn’t going for any sort of weapon. _Jeez, he was an idiot._ He knew how this felt, the fear that came with being touched without permission. Hell, he knew how that felt all too well. For months after his first games he was the same way.

“I won’t— won’t put a hand on you without your permission again, please just… it’s okay. I get it, the whole not liking to be touched thing. I’m sorry.” His lips curled into a bit of a strained smile, his expression open and honest as he rambled. “I don’t let anyone touch the back of my neck anymore, it makes me get these bad flashbacks. Night terrors and everything, so please don’t be ashamed or whatever. Are you gonna be okay?”

“You should not say such things to me,” they whispered. “I am not deserving.”

_That voice._

Elliott's mother always said that he was an open book, every single emotion would show up on his face, whether he wanted it to or not.

Shock was written in every line of Elliott’s stiffened body as he recognized the voice. It was the very same voice that had caressed his ear as a knife slid into his neck. _He was flirting with them_. With the person that caused all his nightmares. And they had fucking let him stand there this entire time and make a fool of himself.

Elliott felt his face drain of color. Once more this person had humiliated him. Had let Mirage embarrass himself trying to flirt when Hound _knew_ it was him.

“Y-yh- _you_ .” The simple word tasted like ash on Elliott’s tongue. _Of course_. Of course it would be now that he’d stutter over his words. He couldn’t even say a single sentence. Blood spread thickly over his tongue before he even knew he had bit his cheek to stop himself from saying anything else. This was horrifying, all those hours put into training for this moment and here Elliott stood unable to even move, clenching his fists by his sides.

“I am sorry,” Bloodhound said softly, their lip trembling. They raised their shaking hands slowly, an echo of gesture Elliott had made towards them only moments ago.

The expression on Hound’s face only added to the sick feeling in Elliott’s stomach. It just humanized the person who had killed him so brutally. It was so much easier picturing that blank mask, at least then there was no way to tell whether or not they felt guilty about their actions. Elliot opened his mouth to spit out some sort of insult. Elaina stepped forward and slammed a hand on the stall table.

“Pay up and go, both of you. Now.”  
  
Mirage blinked slowly before he nodded stiffly and handed her some of the stolen money from his pocket, plucking the device he’d been looking at prior from the counter. His movements were jerky, tension radiating from his shoulders as the whispers of the people watching suddenly reached his ears. They enjoyed this sort of sick confrontation, taking pleasure in how distressed these strangers were. _Bastards._

He didn’t look back at Bloodhound as he shouldered his way through the crowd of people that had surrounded them.

• • •

That incident in the marketplace had left Elliott restless and even more committed to improving his skills, working hard to train his body for the upcoming Apex Games  
  
And then the issues began, the nightmares still continued every single night without fail, had him waking up screaming with the taste of blood sharp in his mouth. Until one night they didn’t.

It started just like any other nightmare: a body pressed cruelly against his back as Elliott was winding back to finish off his victim. A hard arm wrapped around his chest, the pressure so familiar as a voice breathed near his ear. “Your pride does not become you.”

Mirage squeezed his eyes closed, knowing what was coming next as he tensed and prepared himself for the end. At first, he didn’t realize how he had felt a brush of air over his ear, the sensation out of the norm since Bloodhound always wore the mask in his dreams.

This Hound did not, soft lips brushing over the shell of Elliott’s ear as that fucking voice finished the sentence. “I will give you this so that you may learn from it."

That was wrong, they always said they could give him death but no knife came and there was no drowning in his own blood. Instead, the arm barred across his chest slid down, Elliott's eyes shot open when he felt a gloved hand brush his hip.

The rough material of Bloodhound’s gloves dragged over his skin until the Trickster was arching with a soft gasp, that was definitely not a knife.

“W-what?” Elliott asked, confused as he got pressed down into a bed. The sudden sting of what he knew were unusually sharp teeth dug into his shoulder.  
  
“There is no shame in competition.” The voice purred behind him, Elliott screaming as he startled from his sleep and bolted up in bed.

A thin layer of sweat covered him head to toe, the nondescript grey sheets sticking to his clammy skin as the Trickster raised shaking hands to his flushed face. Fearfully lifting his comforter after trying to regain his breath, Elliott felt his face fall at the damning evidence of the dream that stood between his legs.

“What...the fuck. _What the fuck!_ ”

• • •

The dropship rattled beneath Elliott's booted feet, his squad nearby chattering about places to drop and what guns they wanted as the Trickster stood quietly. One hand was lifted to hold the overhanging straps to keep him balanced, but he was unusually silent as he kept his eyes closed and worked on his breathing. Meditation was a new thing his trainer had incorporated into his routine, a way to center himself.

Elliott had seen _them_ already, caught a flash of goggles on his way to the chambers that would place the contestants in the games.

The mask was back in place, covering what Elliott knew lay underneath. The holographic trickster had tripped when he caught sight, a flash of that mouth pressed to his own making the man hurry to his own chamber. _No. Don’t think about that._  
  
_They_ were in the dropship now too. Mirage licked his lips as he fought to keep his breathing steady. It didn’t help one bit. Elliott felt his nails dig into his palms harshly as he fought to keep his mind on the task at hand. The dreams were just some freak accident, his mind trying to make sense of the trauma he suffered. A way to help him cope.

This had become a mantra to repeat, that it was perfectly normal to have these sorts of dreams. He was a red-blooded man who hadn’t had an intimate encounter in a very long time, of course Elliott would have wet dreams. Just because they happened to star only Bloodhound meant nothing, they were just a pretty mouth to think about and nothing more. It made sense right?

“Mirage? Mirage! Where do you want to land?” The woman to his side punched the former pilot in the shoulder, Elliott snapping from his thoughts with a small gasp as he turned to see the unimpressed gaze of his squadmates. They were gesturing to the digital image of the map on their screen, pings already placed on skull town. Elliott shook his head.

“No. We aren’t gonna land in a hot spot; you’ll get us gunned down immediately. Pick a place near the edge of the map, and we’ll push into the ring from there, no reason to get picked off early. It gives us time to loot and weapon up.” His voice was firm, dark eyes observing how the pair seemed to silently communicate with another before offering matching nods. Elliott knew the two women recognized one another, so the trust was apparent, he only hoped they would treat him with similar faith in case he went down in the arena. There were stories of teammate’s beacons being left, not offering another chance to fight when there was a way.

“I have to ask...aren’t you the guy who attacked the champion last year at the after party?” one of his teammates asked playfully, the woman trying to soften the blow with a coy smile but Elliott felt his jaw clench. The champion. Unconsciously his gaze lifted and scanned the crowd, even though Mirage knew where it would land as he’d already scoped the ship. In an opposite corner to them Bloodhound stood with their squadmates, the blank mask sending a chill down the brunette’s back as he reflexively tightened his fingers on the strap.

Anger burned hotly in Elliott’s veins, just the sight of the person who he’d dedicated so much time to stood there without a care in the world. Sucking in a sharp breath through his nose, Mirage forced himself to offer up a sheepish grin even if his eyes didn’t leave their masked face.

“Hah, you caught me. I picked a fight after the games because of some bitch move the champ pulled, it’s not a big deal. They’re a notorious camper though, so I’d be wary. They steal kills to bulk up their stats.”

His squadmates were nodding as if they agreed, but Elliott only had eyes for one person. He would win this year, and even if it wasn’t the whole game… Elliott would ensure Bloodhound was taken down.

* * *

 

The sound of blood rushing through their ears was all Bloodhound could focus on as they crept slowly through the skeletal remains of charred trees that sprouted from the ashes of the forest. Two banners hung from their hip, clinking together every so often to remind them of how close they had come to meeting the same fate as their squadmates. Their harsh breathing seemed to vibrate across their ribcage on each shaky inhale, terror and adrenaline still twining inside their chest.

Both of them, killed in one fight. Though it could hardly be called such.

They gripped the empty shotgun in their hands tighter. With the blessing of the Allfather, no enemies would be nearby. They were not equipped for a fight, carrying only their knife. It was rare that they felt so exposed and vulnerable in the games. Hound was always quick to scavenge weapons, quick to defend themself. But there had been no time, the ring was approaching steadily behind them, its dull roar growing louder with each passing second.

Hound had warned them, had told their teammates, tried to keep them close. But they were foolish. Bloodhound had seen the footprints that sunk into the mud, knew there was a team waiting close by. But their own squad was cocky, too impressed by their own skills in the fight prior to consider that the new enemy may have laid out traps.

The two of them had rushed into a small building on the edge of the swamps, closing the door behind them as they went, thinking to ambush the other squad waiting inside, force them to engage in close combat. They had suffocated. Died to the toxic gas that had burst from the device hidden against the door frame.

Bloodhound was forced to wait until it cleared before they could retrieve the banners of their fallen teammates, doing their best to pick off the enemies that lingered close by, watching them.

They exhaled sharply, annoyed. Hound could only hope that these mistakes would not be made a second time as they edged closer to the gap between the two large hills of rock. The respawn beacon lay on just the other side. They were almost there.

The green light of it was so close, only a few hundred meters away. Bloodhound sucked in a deep breath as they picked up their pace. It would only be a matter of time before the ring caught up with them. They hoped to have their teammates back to their feet by then. If not, well, victory would be unlikely, to say the least.

Just as they felt themself begin to relax minutely, a gunshot rang out. It kicked up the dirt some feet away from them. The nerves returned with force, amplified now. They would not be picked off so easily.

Energy surged through Hound as they activated the the tracker strapped to their wrist. The dull browns and greens of the mountain pass faded away as their vision began to sharpen. A single red outline sat crouched behind the beacon.

Another shot rang out, and this time the bullet embedded itself into their thigh. They stumbled, tripped through the dirt, breath whistling through their teeth as they felt the warmth of their own blood begin to soak through their pant leg. A low, animalistic growl vibrated from their chest, fear and anger stirring inside them. They ran for the beacon.

A blur of white was sprinting towards them. It’s shape human, but without the pulse of heat that indicated life. A ruse. Bloodhound rushed past, instead charging the figure that hunched low to the ground, slamming themself into them.

Hound kneeled over them, straddling their hips, crashing their knuckles into the enemy’s face, The terror of being caught unarmed and the rage of being shot coursed through them, the driving force behind their blows. The person they had pinned was trying to defend themselves, holding their arms over their face in a weak attempt to block Bloodhound’s fury, but all Hound saw was red.

One arm shot down suddenly, gripping Hound’s thigh. They bit back a cry as fingers dug inside their bullet wound. As they leaned back, trying to pull their leg away from the nails scratching through their flesh, the enemy took advantage, flipping them onto their back, jamming the heel of their boot against Hound’s thigh. They grunted, shifting underneath the weight of the body on top of them, trying to squirm away.

A fist connected with their jaw, sending their head slamming back against the ground with such a force that that their vision swam, flickering between grayscale and not. Another blow hit them between the lenses of their mask, the metal biting into their skin.

They panted harshly as their attacker struck their mask again. Panic seized them, they couldn’t let their mask break. They couldn’t survive without it. Hound reached up, ignoring the fists that cracked across their face, feeling along the person’s side before— there. They aimed their jab straight for the kidney, listening with mild satisfaction to the choked scream that came from above them.

Bloodhound shoved them backwards, ramming their elbow into the enemy’s throat as they did. They struck them again, this time across the temple, ensuring that they wouldn’t be getting up while Hound took the time to respawn their teammates.

They stood shakily, their leg in searing agony as they stumbled towards the beacon, their vision finally returning to normal.

A familiar voice, albeit hoarse with pain, called out to them, and Hound froze.

“C-coward,” Mirage ground out. “Finish what you started.”

They turned slowly, surveying the damage they had done. Elliott Witt was propped up on one elbow to face them, his face swollen and bloody. Hound’s breathing became sharp and erratic. They hadn’t realized, hadn’t known it was him. They had done this to him, done it again. Hurt him. Mirage. They had given him nightmares. A shiver of self-disgust ran up their spine. They had given him nightmares and they had done it again.

All they held was an empty gun, their knife still strapped to their thigh. They couldn’t bear to use it on him again.

They kneeled next to him taking his head in the crook of their arm, he reach up, scratching weakly at their vambrace. They jerked his neck to the left, the sickening crack of his spine punctuating the movement. Hound’s chest ached, from pain, anger, or guilt, they weren’t sure.

They pulled themself to their feet once more, limping to respawn their squad.

* * *

 

Waking up from the simulation felt like drowning and being suddenly pulled out of the water. Elliott gasped as he jerked awake in the confined space and ran shaking hands over his neck and face. He almost expected to feel the wounds Bloodhound had given him, only encountering his damage-free skin and a bone-deep ache that seemed to radiate from his neck and back.  
  
He’d lost. All those hours spent training every single day, and Elliott had still not been enough in the end. His hand slammed into the glass chamber in front of him, smashing his fists uselessly against the reinforced door like the action would somehow make up for his failings.  
They had eliminated him once again, taken his chance at victory and done so in such a way Elliott could recall every single blow until the end.

If he hadn’t missed his initial shot, he could have won this. Elliott was sure that if he had killed Hound, he would have won this year, but instead, his actions had cost him and his whole squad the match.

‘Fuck!” He shouted, kicking at the locked chamber door and feeling pain radiate from the spot where his foot connected. This would be the last fucking time Bloodhound made a fool of Elliott Witt, the former pilot breathing heavily as seethed in rage and frustration over another loss.

Killed twice, and humiliated at the market for what? Bloodhound was going to leave Elliott to die again in the game, break him to the point of no return and allow Mirage to suffer and bleed out. It was glaringly apparent their actions today showed just how cruel the former champion was, the apology in the marketplace nothing but a ploy to save face in public.

Outside his chamber, more and more people were beginning to the leave the room, headed for the main space where it showcased the match being played out, but Elliott remained in place as he thought on all the mistakes he’d made both in and out of the game. Ultimately, the blame completely fell to him, but that anger needed a victim and Mirage was more than happy to direct that rage at the individual who rarely escaped his thoughts.

It wasn’t until a muffled cheer was heard that Elliott came to his senses, having worked himself up into enough of a rage it was better that he remained away from the crowd. Reaching to let himself out of what had been his safe place for the better part of an hour, Elliott shakily stepped down from the elevated chamber and detected the telling hiss of another opening several feet away. _Shit._

Trying to debate whether he could just run away before being seen or think of an excuse as to why he choose to remain back, his sheepish smile turned to dread at the realization of who had just exited. _Bloodhound_. The tracker stood there a moment, unaware of Elliott as he curled his hands into fists. This was his moment, tucked away from prying eyes and alone with the person who cost him more than just a game.

 _“Bloodhound_ .” It was like the first confrontation all over again, Mirage stomping up to the utterly confused Bloodhound as his hands slammed the other back against the chamber they’d just exited. Intimately aware of how well versed they were in close quarters combat, Elliott wasted no time in pressing his forearm their neck as rage colored his words. “Once is a forgivable mistake, but twice? Who the _fuck_ do you think you are?”

This time there was no excuse of alcohol directing his actions, this was pure and unbridled fury. Elliott pushed up against the tracker and felt his nose brush against the metal mask concealing their face. Coward, they were always hiding behind that fucking mask, remaining so emotionless in the face of everything. It was time for Bloodhound to pay for their mistakes too.Thrusting a hand up before he could even think, Elliott spat the rest of his words while tearing the mask up and away from Bloodhound. _“Look at me when I talk to you!”_

• • •

There was something to be said about how rage motivated in all the wrong ways, Elliott having barely thought about the consequences of his actions before jerking the mask from Bloodhound’s face. They let out a shocked cry as they were exposed. Mirage felt his breath catch as wide amber eyes met his own before the tracker was flinching away, trying to cover themself. Not before Elliott saw their face though, and what they’d most likely been hiding behind the thick barrier from the outside world. The iris of their left eye looked torn, the orange appeared to be eaten away by black as though it were acid. Hound gulped down heaving breaths, struggling against him. Their messy hair brushed down across their forehead, the sweaty blonde strands doing little to cover them. Mirage felt ashamed watching as Hound tried to huddle away, their cracked voice tearing through the haze.

“Don’t look,” they pleaded. “Don’t look. _Biđ ūig_ . Don’t look. _Don’t._ ”

 _Fuck._  
  
“No… I’m sorry. What the hell did I — I’m sorry. _I'm so fucking sorry_.”

Distress pitched his voice higher as Elliott removed his hand, watching as Bloodhound kept mumbling about not looking as they covered their face. Tousled flaxen hair haloed around their head, their shaking hands obscuring their face as their broken pleas hit Elliott straight in the chest. Apex Legends was a game, no matter the consequences of what occurred. At the end of that day it was all fake. This was real, though, the terror pouring from Bloodhound made Elliott feel sick as he let the them drop down in an attempt to hide.

“I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, please just— here. I’ll grab the mask.” His apologies were as rushed and hurried as his own actions. Mirage tore his scarf off his own neck before squatting and wrapping the soft grey material over Hound’s face as gently as his shaking hands would allow.

The illusionist felt disgusted at his own actions, cornering someone and attacking them while they were unprepared was just as cowardly as he’d accused them to be. Spinning to locate the mask, Elliott felt his face fall as he noticed how far away it lay and quickly moved to retrieve it.

Mirage quickly came back and set it gently at Hound’s feet as guilt ate away at him. This wasn’t the same monster Elliott had built up in his head who claimed his life in the games. Watching how small Bloodhound made themself  in an attempt to hide away felt worse than a punch to the gut. Unable to stand watching any longer, Elliott took the coward’s way out and began backing away with his hands outstretched. His words seemed loud in the vacant room as he stumbled backward to leave as quickly as his legs would allow. “I-I’m leaving. I’m so s-sor- _sorry_.”

The last image Elliott saw before running away from his mistakes was Hound curled up and holding their face, his scarf tied haphazardly around their head and doing nothing to conceal how badly Mirage had fucked up.

• • •

Even hours later when Elliott let himself into his house he couldn’t shake the last image of Bloodhound from his mind, seeing how terribly he’d acted and stepped out of line. They were frightened of him, flinching away as if the person who possessed power in that exchange was Elliott. A brief glance at the clock let him know it was most likely time for the after party to be starting, but there was no way Mirage could show his face there after his actions.

There was this bone-deep weariness weighing down his limbs as Elliott stumbled into his darkened bedroom, ripping his goggles from his head and beginning to strip down as the image of wide amber eyes staring up at him in fear played on a loop in his mind.

Mirage had hurt them the way he wanted to, but all he’d really succeeded in doing was proving he was the asshole, not Bloodhound.

Falling into his unmade bed, Elliott curled up with a soft groan and pressed his face against his pillow. Perhaps he deserved the deaths in the game; it was clear who the bigger monster was of the two. Elliott felt his shoulders tense the more he thought on his actions. Everything was his fault. The anger he’d felt was now wholly directed on himself, and that was fitting. Self-loathing was a small price to pay for how Elliott treated another person, nails pressing in against the pillow shoved in his face.

Sleep didn’t come easy that night, hours of tossing and turning thinking about how scared Bloodhound looked in those few seconds haunting Elliott’s thoughts until he was lost in another nightmare.

• • •

A body slammed into Elliott’s own as he was reaching for his knife, knocking him onto his stomach. Hands seized his wrists to pin them to the dirt below as the figure above straddled his thighs. Elliott fought, trying to buck the unknown assailant off his back as he yanked at the hold on his captive wrists. He wouldn’t be taken down so easily, a frustrated grunt forced out as no matter how hard he fought and pulled the other person was not unseated.

“If you’re going to kill me, do it.” Mirage panted, out of breath from his fruitless struggles and ready to face death as he anticipated the feeling of a knife sliding over his throat or even the cocking of a gun. Neither of those came. Instead, deceptively soft lips pressed over the pulse point in his neck, making the Trickster sigh even as hair tickled along his jawline.

The person shifted, pulling Elliott’s now willing arms down to cross behind his back and yank so he was kneeling with the weight off of his back. A shudder ran up his spine, Mirage realizing he’d closed his eyes as another kiss ghosted along the skin of his neck and he let his head fall forward to offer more room.

“Please,” he asked, unsure of what he was requesting. Elliott turned his head and met the gaze of the person behind his back. Bloodhound merely lifted a blond brow, their face beautiful but so cold as they tightened their grip on his arms. The pain was sudden, Elliott letting out a slight gasp as he was pushed down again but this time he had no hands to catch his fall. His face struck into the downy bed below their bodies, feeling how trapped he was in the moment as his hips were pinned down and sharp teeth scraped warningly over his jawline.

_"Don’t look.”_

Like a bucket of frigid water had been thrown over him, Elliott felt his breath catch as he recognized the words. Squirming to be let free now as he felt a cold sweat break out over his skin, almost crying out as his arms were released only for Bloodhound to wind their own arm around his throat. He scrabbled desperately at their grip on his neck, feeling a soft hand stroke over his hair before his head was jerked to side cleanly.

Bolting up in bed once more Elliott gasped, lifting a hand to his throat with a shuddering sigh as he looked around his room, panicked. The dream had felt so real. Mirage lowered his head into his hands with a loud curse before throwing his pillow away as though the action could make up for what just transpired.

“Are you fucking kidding?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation:  
> Bíða = wait  
> Biđ ūig = please

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked it! More to come.
> 
> (This is our first time posting our writing anywhere in a very long time, so please be gentle with us.)


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